


Runner's High

by dirtymudblood



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Post-War, Public Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-02
Updated: 2020-01-02
Packaged: 2021-02-27 03:34:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,228
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22090372
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dirtymudblood/pseuds/dirtymudblood
Summary: A feeling of euphoria that is experienced by some individuals engaged in strenuous running and that is held to be associated with a release of endorphins by the brain.
Relationships: Hermione Granger/Draco Malfoy
Comments: 14
Kudos: 353
Collections: Completed/Downloaded/Read Works





	Runner's High

**Author's Note:**

  * For [honeysweetcutie](https://archiveofourown.org/users/honeysweetcutie/gifts).



> This story is for honeysweetcutie because we fed plot bunnies to each other last night. Go check out her work!

Draco dormiens nunquam excitare est. Never wake a sleeping dragon. Except Hermione  _ fucking  _ Granger didn’t know this rule. 

They became roommates by chance. Or rather, a lack of other chances. After Hogwarts they were both in desperation to leave their places of residency.

For Hermione, returning to her childhood home was out of the question for obvious reasons. The Weasleys, which was once a second home to her, was now awkward and cold after her breakup with Ron. Grimmauld Place with Harry and Ginny felt like being a constant burden and cockblock. 

For Draco, the manor smelled of metal and blood no matter how hard he ordered the house elves to scrub the floors. His father frequented only his study and the aged whiskies he kept for “special occasions”. Evidently death, murder, and humiliation were among such occasions. 

It was actually Hermione who propositioned Draco to share the modest apartment with her. He had become close to Harry in the years following the war as he assisted in the capture of rouge death eaters. Harry said he had changed from the pompous, egotistical, arsehole they knew to gallivant the halls of Hogwarts. 

Unfortunately, Harry failed to clarify that meant he was  _ more  _ pompous,  _ more  _ egotistical, and  _ the biggest  _ arsehole. Except it seemed he was only that way to her. 

Even to Ron, fucking  _ Ron Weasley,  _ he was charming and polite. But to her? 

_ “Never took you for a whore, Granger.”  _ He said once after she allowed a male coworker to sleep on their  _ couch  _ after a particularly long shift. 

Their first Christmas spent together he bought her a hairbrush.  _ “Think of it as a present for me as well, Granger.” _

Worst of all, he was handsome. So fucking good looking it was sickening. His muscles rippled under a thin layer of pale skin. His _S_ _ ectumsempra  _ scar was almost silver against his chest and raised just so that Hermione wanted to wrap her lips around it and suckle until it turned a deep red. 

Not that she would ever tell him. Not that she would ever have the chance. 

From the moment they moved in together his room was a revolving door of women. Leggy blondes and exotic beauties with silky hair that he surely would not buy a brush for for Christmas. 

To Draco, Hermione was not the picture of a perfect roommate either. Her hair was always clogging the drain. She left her shoes scattered around the apartment that he tripped over constantly. And she bought almond milk. Not regular English cow milk. Milk from almonds, that had no teats. Incredible the shite muggles came up with. 

Worst of all? Her pajamas. On summer nights when they opted for no air conditioning, she wore tiny tops that rode up to her belly button and shorts that hugged her wide hips like vices. Once, she had bent over to retrieve her cat from the ground and the seam stitched in between her thighs had ridden up and cut deliciously into the lips of her cunt. His next few showers were ice cold. 

_ Actually, no,  _ Draco thought,  _ the worst of all is her inability to keep quiet at… 3 a.m?  _

His muggle digital clock that Hermione had purchased for him blinked thick red numbers. Every single day it was the same, no matter her work schedule at St. Mungos as an intern healer. 3 a.m on the dot she would be awake and making the most ruckus a single person could possibly. She would leave for an hour and return, hide herself in the bathroom and cry, and Draco would make her toast with jam for when she came out. Neither said anything about it.

Of course Draco was curious where she was going. What in the world could a person be doing from 3 a.m to 4 a.m that left her sobbing? But he left it alone. They all had odd habits after the war. 

For instance, Ron loved to drink. Every night, in fact. It helped him sleep through the nightmares, but it was causing him to grow a rounded belly. Harry had once confessed to him during a long stake out that he let Ginny dominate him in the bedroom. Said it felt good not to be in charge for once. 

Draco fucked his way through any woman he could sink his nails into as compensation for a life of no love and no control. It was all very freudian. 

_ So your friends like to drink and get spanked. What’s your vice, little Granger?  _

Usually he would lay awake and wait for her to come home, only falling back asleep after leaving her the toast. He would wake up a few hours later, when she was already at work, and the plate would be stuffed in the sink. Little crumbs scattering the dish as the only sign she was ever there. 

_ Like goddamn Santa Claus,  _ Draco thought as he threw a pillow over his head and pushed it down over his ears. 

But today was different. He had just come off a three day stake out with Harry Potter that left him with a bad bruise on his side and no suspect in custody. He needed sleep and Hermione  _ fucking  _ Granger was not letting him have it. 

The walls of the apartment were too thin to disguise any movement. She breathed a little too loudly and he could hear it humming through the walls. Right now she was stumbling through the dark, opening and closing cabinets, speaking in low tones to her orange vermin. The final straw was when he heard the unmistakable crash of their shared shoe rack falling against the hardwood of their living room. 

_ That’s it, Granger.  _

With a low growl he threw the covers off of himself and steadied a hand on his wand, casting a faint  _ Lumos.  _

When he opened the door, she was frozen picking up one of his misplaced dragonhide shoes. Her eyes in the glow of his wand were as if she were a deer caught in a muggle car’s headlights. Or a child with their hand stuck in the candy jar. 

Guilty. 

“Malfoy.”

“Granger,” his voice a deep, sleepy timber. “Do you have even the faintest idea what time is it?” 

He knew she did. It was routine. 

“I didn’t mean to wake you,” She sighed. Her eyes immediately flickered to the analog clock on the opposite wall, moving her lips as she calculated the time. “Shit, I have to go. I’m going to be late.”

The dragonhide boots lay forgotten on the floor and instead she grabbed ahold of her own tennis sneakers and slipped them on.

She looked almost panicked. 

_ How can you be late for anything at 3 in the morning? _

“Granger.”

“Not now, Malfoy.”

“Granger.” She was tying her laces and sticking her hair up in a ponytail.

“Really, Malfoy, I must go.” She was stumbling to the door, but Draco was faster. 

“ _ Granger.”  _ His hand caught her wrist. If it was a godly hour he would have noticed how small and soft it felt in his larger, more rugged palm. 

_ “What?”  _ She hissed, sparing another glance at the clock behind him. 

“Where are you going?”

She took her wrist out of his hand. “I don’t think that’s any of your business, is it?”

Draco snorted. “It is when I’m being woken up before the arse crack of dawn.”

She had the decency to look guilty. “I..”

“Yes, Granger?”

“I’m going running.” It was a normal thing. Running. So why did she look so positively shameful?

“Running? Really? At this hour?” 

“Yes, Malfoy, and if I don’t head out soon I’ll be late.”

Draco scoffed. “Don’t be daft, Granger, you can’t be  _ late  _ for a run…”

He trailed off at the look in her eyes. It was the same look Ron had when ordering his first round of butterbeer for the night. The same look Harry had when finishing a shift to return home to his punishments. The same look Draco knew he had before opening the bedroom door to let in his conquests. 

He called it the “post-war transgression look”. 

“I’m coming with you?”

Now she scoffed. “Pardon?”

“Yes, just give me a moment to grab a jumper and we’ll head out.” He moved to enter his room. 

“Malfoy I can’t  _ wait,  _ I’m already pressed for time.”

“Oh really? So you didn’t set the clock ten minutes fast all over this apartment to ‘Hermione Time’ so that you’re always earlier than needed?” 

She blushed and grumbled a, “Shut up, ferret.” Which only served to make him laugh. 

“Five minutes,  _ swot,  _ and we’ll be on our way.”

True to his nature, exactly  _ six  _ minutes later they were on their way out the door.

The air was cool and crisp and stung Draco’s cheeks in its breeze. They walked down the pavement, over the dewy grass, to the entrance of a wooded park just down the road. Though no one had been there for probably hours, a swing still moved in the force of the wind. 

Looking over at Hermione, he realized she was clad in nothing more than thin muggle leggings (bless them for that invention, much better than  _ almond milk)  _ and a fitted long sleeve t-shirt. He had half a mind to pull his own sweater off and give it to her, but then  _ he  _ would be cold. 

Instead he watched as her nipples tightened under her sports bra and pebbled its way through her shirt. A deep shiver caused goosebumps to form on her neck and disappear under the collar of her shirt and for a second the image of flattening his hot tongue against the raised flesh grazed his mind. 

Through seconds of glancing at her wrist watch Hermione spared her own glanced to the blonde next to her. He was tall and broad with sharp features that framed full lips. His usually styled hair was now swept with the combination of bed head and the winds rough fingers. 

Very grabable, freshly fucked hair. 

She stopped suddenly where the concrete path faded out into raw dirt and stones. He waited a moment for her to begin, but all she did was stare at her watch. 

“Should we--”

“Not yet, we have another 45 seconds.”

“Until what?”

Her eyes never left her watch. “Until 3:22.”

“What’s so special about 3:22?”

This time her eyes did meet his, the watch forgotten except for the small ticks to remind them it was there. “It’s when they started chasing us.”

And then she was gone. 

Her feet pounded on the dirt floor, picking up dust that stuck on the otherwise clean soles of her shoes. The low hanging branches of bushes swept her ankle, threatening to topple her over. But she couldn’t, she couldn’t fall. She had to run. They were right behind her. 

She could hear them. Their panting breaths, the strike of their feet getting closer. 

Closer. 

Her heart was bursting, clawing its way up her throat to reach for air. But she couldn’t slow down, not while they were so close. 

_ “Granger, stop!”  _

The voice was a good distance away. That was good. She was outrunning them. 

If they caught her she would be taken to Malfoy Manor. She would be held down and  _ Crucio’d  _ until she trickled blood out of her mouth from biting down on her tongue. Bellatrix. The knife. The blood. 

Run, run faster. 

_ “Granger!” _

The voice was closer, she was slowing down. Her legs were wobbling. Threatening to fall under her. The trees mocked her from their place in the sky. 

Run, run faster. 

She wasn’t panting now, she was gasping. The footsteps were just behind her. The voice was stronger. She knew that voice, from somewhere. 

_ “Hermione!” _

His hand was on her wrist again, like it was before. She knew that hand, from somewhere. It wasn’t the claws of Fenrir or the sharp nails of Bellatrix. 

It was warm, calloused. It wasn’t going to trap her, it was going to save her. 

She spun on her heel, no longer running, and launched for the figure in front of her. 

He was there. He was there when it happened. She knew that hair, those eyes. From somewhere. 

Her lips were on his. Hot and wet and gasping. She clung to his. Scratched at the hair on his scalp. Clawed at the flesh of his neck until he hissed and bit threateningly on her bottom lip. 

And then she was gone again. 

A flash of curls tearing through the shade of trees under a falling moon. A low growl behind her signified she was being hunted. Again. 

But she needed to make it through the other side of the clearing. If she could just make it through, she would be safe. No Malfoy Manor. No Greyback. No Bellatrix. 

_ Crazy fucking witch,  _ Draco thought, pumping his legs faster to keep up. 

He was so close she could feel his hands swiping at the ends of her hair. So close she could hear his gasping breaths of curses. So close she could smell the sweat and musk that, at any other time, she would want to lap up like a kitten. 

But she couldn’t now. She had to run. 

Had to make it to the clearing. 

_ No Malfoy Manor. _

_ No Greyback. _

_ No Bellatrix.  _

She was so close to the end. So close to safety. Just like every night before this one. She would make it. She would be safe.

_ No Malfoy Manor. _

_ No Greyback. _

_ No Bellatrix.  _

She could see the edge where the leaves brushed against the sky. It was the veil of safety, just past those leaves. 

_ No Malfoy Manor. _

_ No Greyback. _

_ No Bellatrix.  _

Except, she heard the tumbling and a loud  _ oof,  _ followed by a hand that shot out to her ankle, pulling her to the ground. 

_ Malfoy Manor.  _

_ Greyback.  _

_ Bellatrix.  _

Her hands clawed at the ground, digging dirt and pebbles under her nail beds. Bleeding at the sheer force of her scratching. 

“Damn it, Granger, enough!” The voice was over her now, pulling her hands from the ground and into a strong hold. 

“Don’t take me- Don’t take me,  _ please.  _ I-I can’t go back there, I can’t. I can’t.” She was trying to twist her body, trying to wiggle her way out from under the body above her. 

“I’m not taking you anywhere, Granger, you have to relax. Come on now, sweetness. It’s me. It’s Draco.” 

She stopped wiggling. “Draco?”

“Yes, you daft bint. Draco. I’m your roommate. We do the muggle crossword together on Fridays. You eat the toast I make you every morning. I always leave the toilet seat up and you spelled it to stick down. I bought you a brush for Christmas which, if I may, you don’t seem to have ever fucking used.”

He let go of her hands, but she only reached them up to cup his face. Stroke his cheek. 

“Draco?” It was a whisper this time, “Don’t take me back there. Don’t… Don’t let them get me.”

He sighed and placed a hand over hers on his face. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry they got you. I’m sorry I let them. But you’re safe now. Here. With me. You don’t have to run anymore.” 

Their faces were a breath away. The night air, which at one time felt too cold was now scorching wherever their flesh touched. 

“No more running?” Her lips brushed his on the whisper. 

“No more.” 

And then his lips were on hers once more. Gentle this time. Like breathing life into her again. Tender and soothing. 

They were both sweating, slick from pores they didn’t even know they had. 

She knew these hands that fell under her shirt and rubbed soothing circles over the swell of her ribcage. 

She knew those eyes that watched her as she threw her head back as he grazed a pebbled nipple. 

She knew that silver hair she grabbed to bring him down for another kiss to quiet her moans into the night. 

Draco.

Her roommate. 

They did muggle crosswords together on Fridays. 

She ate the toast he made in the mornings.

He always left the toilet seat up so she charmed it to stick down. 

And she never, ever touched that fucking brush he gave her for Christmas. 

He could feel the small rocks pressing indentation in his knees. He hissed when she ran a hand down his chest that stuck to his shirt with thick, sticky sweat and cupped him through his pants. 

She yelped when he reached between them and thumbed her clit through her thin leggings. Bless the muggles for this invention. So much better than almond milk. 

“Don’t take me back there, Draco.” She gasped as he pulled at her earlobe with his teeth. 

“I’ll burn the fucking place down for you, if that’ll make you stop running.”

He tugged off his jumper and tee-shirt and laid it out on the ground below her before stripping her of her own shirt. Under the now setting moon, with the shadow of the leaves over her pale breasts, he knew he really would set his childhood home on fire for her. If it made her stop running. 

She was slick all over, from the sweat rolling between her breasts to the wetness between her thighs as he pumped one, then two fingers into her. He beckoned his finger inside her forward to hit that fleshy spot that made her roll her eyes back and let out a shuddering gasp. 

_ Come here,  _ the fingers said. 

So she did. Clenching and milking and writhing on the ground. No longer trying to get away, but trying to get closer. 

He let out another hiss as she pulled his sweats down past his hips, exposing the heat of his cock to the air. It caressed him in this wisps of wind that had him pulsing. 

Her hand grasped him, thumbing over the slit that weeped for her. Guiding him towards her, guiding him into her. 

She was a hot, wet, grip that sucked him in. Fleshy and pulsing and mewling under him. Each time he reared back her inner muscles would clench together before parting at his instruction again. 

He was close. The place under his naval that twisted and pulled told him so. He licked the pad of his thumb before reaching between them once more, rubbing wide circles on her sensitive bud. 

She was shaking and clutching her nails into the soft muscle of his shoulder. He knew there would be red crescent shapes imprinted in them later. He didn’t care. She could take whatever she needed from him. 

“I don’t-- _ oh fuck _ \--wanna run anymore, Draco.” She gasped, her knees trembling at his side as he pumped into her. 

“No more running, Granger,” He could feel the space below his navel tightening now, ready to spring out and uncoil. “You’re staying… right… here.”   
Silent screams. As if they were afraid any more noises of pleasure into the night would alert someone to their presence and ruin this moment on the dirt floor. 

But there was no one around. Probably not for hours. And that swing was probably still swaying in the wind. 

The next night, for the first time in years, she slept past her 3 a.m alarm. No more running. 


End file.
